


The Weekday Boy-Whores of Newbold Babcock

by starstuddedsin



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Gaping, Anal Sex, Body Modification, Boypussy, Cat/Human Hybrids, Choking, Consensual Sex, Fisting, Forced Feminization, Forced Pregnancy, Gangbang, Lactation, M/M, Oral Sex, Pregnant Sex, Prostitution, Rimming, Romance, Rough Sex, Sexual Slavery, Size Difference, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, human cow, pissing inside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:14:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25213744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstuddedsin/pseuds/starstuddedsin
Summary: Chapter One: Lonzo Vega, enterprising reporter for the San Amargosa Chronicle, plans to do a story on the brothel owned by his dear old army pal, Newbold Babcock. In exchange, Newbold promises him a new boy-whore for every day of the work week.Chapter Two: Hester Chang's son Juan is a troublemaker and a hell-raiser, so she buys him a pet to teach him responsibility. Specifically, she buys him a boy-bitch with big, milky tits, the kind of cow a man can really get invested in.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 27
Kudos: 288





	1. The Weekday Boy-Whores of Newbold Babcock

Well, Lonzo Vega said he would write up the Newbold Babcock whorehouse for the San Amargosa Chronicle, and this was so daring a pitch to bring to the head editor that that august old man nearly had a heart attack. But that was Lonzo for you. Lonzo, lean and slick, had written up the pleasures of Hester Chang's naked-girl dancing house and Rogelio Salamanca's poppy-wine restaurant. Lonzo was the most popular reporter in San Amargosa because his column made back-street pleasures acceptable.

Newbold Babcock wasn't a San Amargosan like Chang or Salamanca. He came out of the East. He was a barrel-chested, big man with thick blond hair and a thick blond mustache, and what he did was set up a contract with the Union Metropolitan Government to clear out the Union slums. In Union City, female offenders were put to work in the local brothels, but the male offenders were crowding up the jails something awful. Enter good old Newbold Babcock. He didn't want just any slum-dweller, he wanted clean, obedient male slum-dwellers of fourteen-to-twenty, the kind he could invest in. When those were picked up by the Union police, they could choose to die in the Union jail or they could sign themselves away to Newbold Babcock, who would spirit them out of the city, get them bunked down in a guarded train car for four hundred miles, fix them up when the train reached Centerville, and then sell them in San Amargosa.

San Amargosa was old Alatriz territory, and the Alatriz were priest-following, daughter-protecting, old-school prayerful rancheros. They found whorehouses distasteful, so at first Babcock could only secure Union City expatriates as clients. That was why marketing was necessary. But Babcock thought people would trust a reporter more than an ad man. And Lonzo Vega, he was just the reporter for the job. He was a free-thinking sort. His father had been a stout, mixed-blood Alatriz with a pretty black-skinned Amargosa native mother. Lonzo's own mother had been a thin blond from Centerville. His father's mother's people had lost the lands around Amargosa to the Alatriz and his father's father's people had lost them again, to the Union, so Lonzo, when he'd been born, had sized things up and figured he ought not to worry overmuch about what he was or where he was from. He'd served in the 19th Union City regiment during the Amargosa native uprising, then traveled to Centerville for his reporter training. Then come back to a little plot of land in the sunny foothills around San Amargosa, in a valley that had been claimed by the Union following the uprising, a valley that had been 'til then untouched and was thus as pretty as a picture.

Life for him was good. Newbold Babcock, he'd served in the 19th Regiment too, and was a friend, and when life is good it's a pleasure to help a friend. Lonzo would do a cathouse writeup for him, to win over the sour, prickly old Alatriz households that saw whoring as an unforgivable vice.

"I'll give you my five best, and you write 'em up for me," said Babcock. "One for every day of the week."

Lonzo touched his hand to his hat.

"After five, I'll damn well need the weekend to rest," he said easily.

-

Well, Monday's was a sight to see. Those tits! Lonzo knew that down in Centerville, there was an old world community of Vhraki emigres that did magical modification. But to know it and to see the results was something else. The pretty boy-whore Newbold sent to the mountainview suite had been given such a pair as to put Lonzo's father's herds to shame. Big handfuls with drippy nipples, rivulets of white milk staining the whore's shift. 

The boy's cock was permanently hard with chemical modification, which he shamefacedly 'fessed up to during the interview portion. He had huge, swollen, painful balls. Couldn't come without being electrocuted, which explained the welts from wire-treatment on his tits. Lonzo felt bad for him. Journalistic integrity meant he had to note this:

_some of the delights at Babcock's are not for those given to excess sympathy, I must say!_

But this unpleasantness was more than made up when the boy-whore turned around, bent over, and presented his loose asshole. That would please any San Amargosa anatomist or medical student! A straight shot up the anal canal, a view to rival the mountains outside the window. The whore confessed to daily enemas, to keep him nice and clean. Such an embarrassing gape wasn't much for a man who wanted vanilla fucking, but it did offer real possibilities to anyone who wanted self-pleasure and whore-pleasure at once.

Crying, the boy-whore told how he was designed for men to get their fists in there with their cocks. You could stroke yourself off inside him, and he was just a hole to collect the cum. This was accomplished by painful and exacting stretching each night. Mr. Babcock had started him on slender phalluses, like the size of the average man's cock, and worked him up to horse-cock size. Oxen-cock size. Every night he took a bigger one, and slept with it in him, plugging in all the cum, before he was emptied and cleaned out in the morning.

Lonzo noted the boy's crime in Union City -- he'd been caught sleeping, homeless, in a public park -- and his claim that he had not known what it was to sign himself away to Mr. Babcock, because he couldn't read. He came from one of those eight-or-nine-child Onssajik immigrant families, and had never learned the local language, not until he'd been made a whore. Mr. Babcock was exacting when it came to whore education.

"Jutti, wouldn't you say that's an opportunity you wouldn't have had back in Union City?" Lonzo asked reasonably. "Speak clear into the gramophone, please."

He passed the sobbing Jutti a handkerchief, to wipe his nose and big blue eyes with. Big blue eyes, blushing pink skin, and all that golden hair -- Jutti reminded one of the corn-fed maidens of Centerville, except of course that his tits were much bigger. Lonzo noted this.

The crying whore admitted that here, yes, he did receive altogether a great deal more attention, education, and personal improvement than he had back East. When pressed, he also told how Mr. Babcock had him do charity work Sundays, among the Amargosa mountain miners. This kept relations real pacific between the Alatriz and Union mine owners and their native workers. Jutti, he was passed around like a party favor, his ass stretched wide enough for two men to use at once, his milk-filled tits generous enough to please eight or nine in one go. A company perk, and thus the mining companies -- some of the biggest and most important employers in San Amargosa -- they got no talk of unions. The workers felt taken care of. Valued. All thanks to Babcock's cathouse.

As that was Sundays for Jutti, and this was Monday, well, that explained the baggy, ruined asshole a bit better than mere nightly anal treatment did. Lonzo was proud to get such a scoop. He did get his fist up there, too, to feel it out and take note of the experience for his readers. The boy's whimpering cries were sweet as the musical trill of insects back home in the valley, piping out a song over the grape orchards. 

_If a man's got to go to confession anyway, he could do worse for himself than to confess to having fucked Jutti. Clean inside and out, and ready to take a platoon back there. There's many a priest wouldn't think less of a man for succumbing to this!_

For his own part, Lonzo had been stroking himself off the whole interview, making Jutti take the cum on his face or tits, or in his mouth. Couldn't help it. The boy was a damn fine sight, and a man had needs. After the interview, he gave Lonzo the sweetest tit-job, better than the camp whores that had pleasured the 19th Regiment. Soft, pillowy tits around Lonzo's cock, and the sticky, drippy milk spurting out. Lonzo fucked up into those tits with abandon, giving the boy his own milk. 

MONDAY MILKY MOLLYBOY, MAKES THE START OF THE WEEK SWEET, ran the headlines the following week, and while there were complaints, oh boy did that edition sell just as well as a weekend edition.

-

Tuesday, well that was Lonzo's least favorite day of the week. One didn't have the energy one had on Monday, and yet there was still so much of the week to go. It was a special torture to remember that one-seventh of one's time on earth was Tuesdays, and the old Lonz, he was fairly sure even Newbold Babcock couldn't remedy the harsh reality of that.

 _Reader,_ Lonzo would write later, _I was d----ed wrong, if you will pardon my language._

Well, Lonzo, he was a dog man. But the cat-bitch Babcock sent him was a sight for sore eyes. Little modified ears, and a tail grafted on above the ass, a tail that curled and undulated. The cat was led in by a little collar and leash, and one of Babcock's house-hostesses -- good, local girls, paid well for the work; Lonzo had gone to primary school with this one; she was named Conchita and greeted him warmly -- showed Lonzo how by pulling tight on the leash he could induce the cat-bitch to choke.

It tightened _right_ up. That little cat-twat clamped down on Lonzo's finger, and the kitten gushed wet, too. Its cocklet poked out from its sheath, tiny as a real housecat's.

"Of course, Tabs doesn't get to fuck anything," Conchita explained, for Tabs had had his vocal chords cut and could only make purring or whining sounds, "but it's for the verisimilitude, you see. He even has penile spines, and Mr. Babcock usually makes him take a spiked phallus, for his morning training."

Since Tabs couldn't talk, she answered questions during the interview portion, enthusiastic as anything about her charge.

"His name was Felix Fiorucci, you see, and he was one of the single _worst_ characters back in Ragtown, which was the _awful_ Union City slum he used to live in! Always drunk, and a gambler, and a beggar, and costing his factory employers an awful lot with his union steward antics. I do feel sorry when I think about the life he must have led. He was a big, ugly fellow when he rolled into Centerville--"

Here she showed Lonzo a picture, and Lonzo confirmed that Felix had been no looker, except for the big brown eyes, which looked nicer on a sweet little cat-bitch.

"--and Mr. Babcock had the idea to make him pretty. The first step wasn't the cat-modification. It was this little pussy--"

Lonzo rubbed it appreciatively. He made a note to tell the reader how soft and tight it was, how it spasmed around his fingers as Tabs gasped for _just_ enough breath.

"--and Mr. Babcock was the first to fuck him, and Tabs, he went just _boneless_ and came four times even though he was crying, Mr. Babcock said. He had the idea to make him a puppy, because it was clear Tabs was a bitch, but when they cut down his big legs and arms and made him such a pretty, small thing, it seemed a waste not to design a pussy with a pussy. Of course, it's taken lots of drugging to get him as sweet as he is now, but these days he's really the perfect stress relief. He likes curling up and being petted, but he can take plenty of rough treatment, too, and especially choking. He has eight or nine regulars who always ask for him, because they're important fellows -- though of course I can't say who -- and they get _such_ a chance to unwind when they fuck him!"

Lonzo had a journalistic duty to press her on who these cat-loving clients could be, but Conchita was coy. Still, she understood the importance of whetting the reader's appetite, and let slip a description that certainly could fit any number of city councilmen or local oilmen, and which Lonzo would use to suggest it might be any and all of them. In the process, he found Tabs had migrated to his lap and was drowsily pawing at his cock.

"He just loves to suckle a nice fat prick," Conchita said affectionately. " _He_ doesn't know he's a cat these days. I think he thinks he's a baby piglet!"

_Reader_ , Lonzo would later write, _I gave that pretty pig-kitty exactly what he wanted._

Tabs had a good wide mouth with wide lips, original to him, to go by his picture. He sucked cock perfectly, purring around it, letting his drool slide out around Lonzo's thick pole. He was a warm, wet hole. Lonzo grabbed his ears to get traction, and fucked in-out of his mouth, and his little tail went question-marked with pleasure as the tight cat-cunt twitched beneath Conchita's approving eye.

At her enthusiastic urging, Lonzo pulled the cat-bitch off his cock and manhandled the little thing, turning it around. Its pussy accepted his prick with little resistance, the wet tunnel giving way exquisitely. Lonzo thought it could have been tighter, maybe -- you could see that Tabs the cat-bitch got a lot of use -- but the wriggling cat-hips made the whole experience a real treat. Tightening the leash and choking Tabs made it even better. Tabs was red-faced and teary-eyed, mewling pathetically, by the time Lonzo dumped a load in him.

Then the pretty pussy snuggled up at Lonzo's feet to play with its cunt as Lonzo wrote the Tuesday column, typing out clack-clack in time with the cat-bitch's weak little pants.

THE TUESDAY TWAT OF 'TABS,' THE BROTHEL CAT would be sure to make an old Doña clutch her prayer beads, but Lonzo was fairly certain the ranch-hands would be riveted.

-

Wednesday came. The middle of the week, the most middling of days, notable only because when it ended one could see the workdays winding down to priestly, prayerful Sunday, which could be spent drinking a cactus-rum fizz on the porch in the sunlit valley. Lonzo tended to roll up his sleeves and get to work in earnest on Wednesdays, after reminding himself that the reward of rest was not so far away.

But even he didn't know how the hell he was going to craft the Wednesday column.

He'd written about this whore already. This gingery, freckled young thing with wide-set grey eyes. Only Billy Two-Shot had been about four times bigger then, and Lonzo, who had been on the desert crime beat, had not enjoyed riding out to Los Saguaros or Marron Valley to view the scenes of carnage Billy left behind. Once upon a mesa, Billy Two-Shot had been the biggest troublemaker in the West. His career of robbery and murder had only ended when he'd begun wooing Carlota Corominas, a black-haired beauty, a rancher's daughter, who had also caught the eye of Sergeant Everett Barker of the 11th Regiment, the famous Union City Fightin' Frogs. Well, that poor girl must have rejected old Billy, for Billy cooked up a scheme to have a showdown at her father's ranch, where he'd tricked Barker into shooting her dead. Barker had hanged himself in grief, and Billy, he had escaped back east to cool his heels. Lonzo, who found the whole thing horrific in the extreme, had been left to write the affair up for the _Chronicle_. 

The one mugshot they had of Billy, printed just under his byline, right next to the angelic photo of Carlota in her white lace mantilla, had haunted him for weeks. So he knew the face. He knew this was Billy Two-Shot.

Not that Billy -- or, as he seemed to be called now, _Lottie_ \-- was 'fessing up to it. Nor could he. Babcock had fitted him with a metal-and-leather cock gag, an ugly thing wound around his lower face, trapping his now-long red curls. He also wore a corset laced ultra-tight to give him a wasp waist, and a little skirt over his modified, bubble-round behind. His cock was gone entirely, a full Centerville castration job, and, like Tabs, he'd been given a sweet little cunt. Firm, perky tits with tit-clamps and a chain completed the look. 

"It's him, alright," said Newbold easily, for Newbold himself had brought Lottie up to the mountainview suite, the struggling bitch thrown over his broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Once Lonzo got a good look at her face, Newbold dropped her before the balcony doors and spanked her once, twice, making her whine and cry. Newbold grabbed her tit-chain and tugged it, making her cry more.

Then he added, "Figured I'd come up to see how you were doing, Lonz, but especially to see your face. You never did like Billy Two-Shot! Me, I don't mind a man who puts the stuck up _rancheros_ in their place, but with the woman he went too far. Still, I might have let him alone if I hadn't twigged to how much money he might make me. Wouldn't you believe it, but your red-blooded, passionate people go wild at the chance to fuck my little Lottie the Union Bitch, to pay her back for what she did to Carlota!"

This was...certainly a story. Lonzo could not even tell whether he was pleased over it. He supposed he was merely shocked. That poor rancher's daughter had had to be buried closed-casket, for she'd been shot in the face. That it was Billy's fault was clear, but Billy had also been the lifeblood of the West, the outlaw-king. Reduced now to a bitch who keened when Newbold slapped her across the face.

"I know you're not a pain man, Lonz," Newbold said agreeably. "But I am! And my little Lottie's the best pain-bitch in the West. Flogging, figging -- you name it. I've striped her ass until it's bled for weeks, and some of your good Alatriz altar-boy types go at her twice as hard. Sometimes I put her in the stocks outside for a lark, just to see if the passerby will recognize her. Oh boy, but do they. She gets used nonstop, sunup to sundown, for free, because the stock-bitch is just free advertising. Then, at night, she cries. 

"See, Billy was big on tricks, and when he signed his name to my contract he thought he could trick me into taking him on as an indenture. He'd earn a measly sum, and go free. Two hundred, I think it was. And he tried to smuggle a gun onto my railcar, probably to bust out. Well, I twigged to the gun, and had him stripped. And he hasn't earned back that two hundred. See, house policy is that if a bitch is promised to be perfect, but isn't delivered to the customer in perfect condition, the customer can use her for free--"

Here Newbold, a large man, picked up whining Billy-Lottie, and forced her against a nearby wall, flipping up her skirt so Lonzo could see her round ass. It was striped hideously, the welts raised and fresh. Blood and cum dribbled out of the hole.

"I always promise she'll be in good condition," Newbold continued, with a grin. "But I never deliver her that way. And usually I let the customer have two free shots at her, if they can spot who she is, because that just puts 'em in a good mood and makes 'em spend more on food and drinks at my bar. Aside from that, I'm afraid she hasn't earned me a cent, except as marketing. I probably shouldn't keep her on, but well. I like her. What say you and me use her together, Lonz? I want you to try that little cunt."

Put like that, Lonzo could hardly resist. It wouldn't be the first time he and Newbold shared a whore, and Billy-Lottie deserved a rough double-fuck more than most whores Lonzo could name. He really wasn't one to fuck for punishment, but he thought of Carlota Corominas and was satisfied when Newbold dragged Billy-Lottie by the hair to the bed, where the huge man threw her down with little regard for her comfort. Newbold undid his pants easily, shrugging off his jacket and loosening his lariat, and then he was on the bed.

"Get on my cock, bitch, or you'll go to the stocks again," he ordered, and Lonzo, astonished, watched the Terror of Marron Valley tearfully obey. Billy spread his ruined ass-cheeks and sank onto the enormous prick that had left all the rest of the 19th regiment jealous, tears running down his face.

"Spread your cunt lips for my pal Lonzo," Newbold instructed, and Billy _did_.

Lonzo undid his own pants at that. His cock was smaller than Newbold's, but still large enough that he had not a whit of shame over it, and Billy didn't look wet. He made a guttural sound around his gag when Lonzo pushed into him.

He wasn't just dry. He was tight as a virgin. And Lonzo hit resistance, a shred inside him--

Newbold's grin widened.

"You know what they say about poor Lottie Corominas? They say Billy Two-Shot ruined her, and that the shame made her run out to get herself shot on purpose by the 11th Regiment. Well, Lonz, I don't know if that's true. But I brought me a house-Vhraki here to do minor modifications, so I don't have to ship my whores back to Centerville if I want a small job done. And Billy, he gets tightened up and made a virgin _every night_ , so that just about any cock can ruin him and make him feel Carlota's pain."

Billy let out a wild sob, as Lonzo fucked into him and blood ran down his thighs. And the following week, not only did DEADLY DESPERADO DOES TIME AS DIRTY WHORE sell out every San Amargosa newsstand, but it left Newbold Babcock with a queue of eager rancheros on his stoop, all awaiting their chance to fuck and whip his ginger-haired stocks whore for free.

-

Lonzo often liked Thursdays better than even Fridays or Saturdays. As a paper-man, he worked Fridays and Saturdays, and was bone-tired by then anyway. But on Thursdays he still had some pep, and by then he was beginning to settle into more of a routine, so the rounds of fact-checking and story-gathering were no longer feeling so much like work. Thursday, in Lonzo's mind, was just about the perfect day. 

Newbold could have sent him a perfectly average whore, and he would have enjoyed her. That was how good a mood he was in, come Thursday.

But Newbold sent something better than that. Newbold was the sort to always outdo himself, and if anything could have outdone a chance to punishingly fuck Billy Two-Shot, it was the calm, hazel-eyed, pale-skinned boywhore who crawled into the suite that morning and, without prompting, bent his head to lick Lonzo's feet.

He gave his name, rather shyly, as Walt Bisset. He was from the Gastineau Bayou, and his mother had been a whore who had been saved and then married and employed by a traveling preacher eager to bring sinful men into his flock by way of the carrot as well as the stick. Walt was pretty sure he was the preacher's son, but his old man had been a fire and brimstone type, and had treated him poorly, so eventually he'd run away from the religious tent show and made his way to Centerville.

When he'd seen Mr. Babcock leading a chain gang of modified boy-whores to the railway car to ship them out West, he'd begged to join up. Walt was a meek little thing, and his biggest problem with his pops had been that his pops didn't _need_ to hit him to make him fall in line. Walt fell in line as a matter of course. Walt liked to serve men -- he felt that as his proper place. It made his little cock go so hard when a big man twisted his nipples or crushed his tiny ballsack in a fist. Walt couldn't take real nastiness, like the preacher's nastiness, but he wanted to be a good, obedient bitch before someone who would treat him right and punish him when necessary.

"Mr. Babcock's real nice to me. Sometimes he even lets me pick who I can fuck," he said, as he stroked Lonzo off obediently on the bed. Walt was very good about speaking right into the gramophone as he did this. 

Lonzo was gasping. Walt claimed to be nineteen, but was probably some three or four years younger by the looks of him, and yet his firm, clever little hands understood how to stroke a prick.

"What are your modifications, Walt?" Lonzo managed.

Walt gave a little smile. 

"I wanted to ask for everything. I begged for it. But Mr. Babcock, he said I was so good as I was, so good and respectful the way a boy-bitch should be, that I didn't need no fancy modifications. With the right training and mindset like I have, I can be as good a fuck as any of 'em. Still, he gave me a pussy 'cause I begged so hard. D'you want to see my pussy?"

Lonzo nodded, eager. Walt carefully shifted to show it to him, a flushed-pink slit with a hard, thick phallus already lodged in it.

"I can't stand not to be plugged," Walt confessed. "'Specially when I've been fucked and there's cum all hot in me, makin' me full. I like when men fuck me enough to make me look fat with it. My tummy pokes out then, like a real bitch, and then I feel like I've done things right. Some of my regulars are real sweet and they know I like that, so they pay to use me all night. They're good, nice men, and I'm awful thankful to have 'em. I worship just about all of 'em. Like to sleep plugged up on their cocks, and wake 'em up with my mouth in the morning. Sometimes they need to piss and I let 'em. They don't mean no harm -- they just have needs, and they're always so nice to me I'm happy to drink down their piss for 'em."

Lonzo's cock twitched at _piss_ , at the utter humiliation so calmly and happily accepted. When he was done speaking, the boy-bitch closed his mouth on the tip and then Lonzo was coming. Walt drank it down blissfully, and pressed kisses to the head when he was done. 

_As the week winds down,_ Lonzo would write later, _a man starts to think of coming home to a sweet, eager pair of arms. A pair of wide, grateful eyes. A man starts to want to be treated like a king, and Walt Bisset, the best bitch in San Amargosa, is only too happy to oblige._

After the interview, Lonzo laid back and made Walt ride him, and the tractable whore obeyed without question. He worked the big phallus out of his cunt, which was indeed slick with prior loads from the night before, and then climbed onto Lonzo and sank down on his cock. He worked his hips and clenched his pussy artfully. 

"Don't think you gotta be too nice to me, Mr. Lonzo," he panted out, as he fucked himself. "I'd just as soon like to be reminded of my place, as well. Sometimes a man's gotta push me around a bit, I reckon, to teach me how he likes things. I can take it. It's a real pleasure learnin' what a man expects of me like that. Every man is different, see, and I ain't always too quick to learn his quirks and needs, but I'm an awful hard worker and I don't mind bein' taught hard if that's called for."

Well, what was Lonzo to do at that? It was a fine, honest invitation, and that whole night Lonzo absolutely took the little bitch up on it. After he came inside that pussy, he had Walt wipe him up with his mouth, until he was hard again. It was a pleasure to try the ass, an ass a man could smack only to be thanked, worshipfully, for the pain. Walt even cleaned off his cock again when that was done, and then applied himself to licking Lonzo's own pucker with gusto to get him hard again.

"I don't mind the taste, Mr. Lonzo," he panted out, between such wet, delightful little laps to the rim. "A bitch like me's got no right to be picky, and I sure do like hearing you groaning. Tells me I'm doing it right. You let me know when you're ready to go again, sir."

In the end, Lonzo took his pussy twice more, until the boy-whore's belly was just as rounded as Walt said he wanted it. Walt moaned happily then, pawing the swell as Lonzo pumped into him from behind. Lonzo scooped up some of the come leaking out of the boy's loosened back hole and brought it to his open, moaning mouth. Walt licked at his hand without protest, a delightfully dirty little bitch to the end.

"Y-you can piss in me if you want, Mr. Lonzo," the boy mumbled happily, as Lonzo's cock softened in him. 

Lonzo liked this whore so much, he was only too happy to do as requested. Walt shuddered around the hot stream, cunt twitching, and came with a high whine. 

Lonzo ended up plugging the piss and cum in him to keep him so sated and happy. While Lonzo typed up his notes, Walt warmed Lonzo's cock in his little mouth. The boy fell asleep like that, on his knees, perfectly content.

"Maybe you can come back sometime and tie me up, Mr. Lonzo," Walt mumbled the next morning, after a morning suck and kiss to Lonzo's prick.

"That would be my pleasure," Lonzo assured him, and the following Thursday the _Chronicle_ ran an article dear to his heart: BABCOCK'S BAYOU BITCH THE BEST FUCK IN TOWN.

-

Ah, Friday. A reporter's work never really ended, but still Lonzo woke lighthearted and relieved on Fridays. So close to the weekend in his little house, with his green orchards, in his sun-kissed little valley. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the great brothel-villa of Newbold Babcock. It was just that sometimes home called to a man, and that was that.

After Walt Bisset crawled off, head proud and cunt sore and stuffed, Lonzo had breakfast, took a bath, read the morning editions, and admired the mountain view from the balcony.

'Round ten o'clock that day, he received the last boy-whore.

Two brawny ranch-hand types brought the cage in. Lonzo blinked at this, at the creature curled up inside, wrapped around a belly far bigger than Walt's had been at the end there.

This wasn't a modified boywhore. This little cunt-and-cock marvel was all natural. This was a _Johonna_.

Now, San Amargosa was Union territory, but before that it had belonged to the Priestly Empire of Alatriz. But before that it had belonged to the natives, and the natives -- they had just about worshiped the spirits of the oases and mesas and valleys. The Johonna, animals that could pull on a human skin when they wanted, but that hardly ever got the gender right. As humans, they would always try to be both -- both woman and man. You could trap them like that if you drew them out away from their land, which gave them their strength, and burned up the animal skin they pulled off to put on their human skin.

Lonzo knew a lot of Johonna had been captured by Alatriz ranchers, once, and that one or two of the Alatriz around town were part-Johonna. And the Union Army, they'd taken all the Johonna that were left, taken 'em back east to put in museums in Union City.

He couldn't figure how Newbold had gotten his hands on one.

It had skin as ruddy brown as Lonzo's own, big green eyes, and dark hair. It crawled to the edge of its cage and kneeled, blinking drowsily and looking up at Lonzo.

It had tits as full and milk-swollen as Jutti's, a mouth as wide and fuckable as Tabs', hair as long and thick as Billy-Lottie's, and a demeanor quite as calm as Walt's. It did not look as happy as that sweet bitch did, though. Its gaze was downcast and a bit dead.

"What's your name?" Lonzo asked it gently. He had never thought to see a Johonna face to face like this. His best chance, until now, would have been to hop on a train to go visit a Union City museum, where they lived in glass enclosures, always on display for the viewing public.

The Johonna opened his mouth, and let a long, forked tongue loll out. Then it gathered it back up quickly, before speaking.

"Lizard," it rasped out. "'m Lizard."

Lonzo tried to open the cage to let Lizard out for the interview, and found it padlocked. No key had been brought, either. Lizard rasped out a laugh.

"N-no," Lizard said, as if human speech was hard for him. "I--I need my place. My place I was taken from. Mr. Babcock knows I will run--"

Right. Of course. The Johonna were spirits of the land, and to remove them from their bit of land was like torture to them. That was why they had to always be trapped, bound, enclosed. To loose Lizard from his cage would only permit him to flee the brothel and go back to where he came from, where he might become a wild thing. So long as he was kept behind bars like this, though, he would likely be good and weak and pliable.

Lonzo went to fetch his gramophone. They would conduct the interview through the bars, then.

Lizard was from a wild sun-kissed grove. He had lived for a thousand years as wind in the greenery, then as a brook, then as -- predictably -- a little brown lizard. When he had learned to be a man at first things had gone well, and the humans had not bothered him. But then they had begun to. Eventually a soldier -- Mr. Babcock -- had found him and burned his lizard-skin, and put him in the cage.

He could be fed through the cage, and hosed down through the cage, and fucked through it. He had just enough room to stretch his limbs and turn over, to permit him to take cock from the back or the front. He could suck cock through the cage. Sometimes they passed him jars to expel his milk into, for Johonna-milk was a delicacy, and this was the milk Mr. Babcock served at the downstairs bar, which made even older men walk away with tented pants, ready to fuck Lizard's fellow whores.

Lizard had birthed a baby in the cage already, and on that occasion he'd been held to the bars by four men, thrashing and screaming, as Mr. Babcock had opened the cage door and removed the child. It was sent to Mr. Babcock's sister in the East, for like all spirit-humans it was a beautiful baby, a beautiful girl, and sometimes Mr. Babcock showed Lizard pictures of her. This next baby had been fucked into Lizard by none other than Abner Meade, the great Union City general, on the eve of celebrating the Union victory over the Amargosa native uprising. General Meade had fucked Lizard relentlessly, leaving him bruised. He'd fucked Lizard for a week after the celebrations were over, too. General Meade's wife was dear to the man, but past child-bearing, and yet she wanted a child. A pretty spirit-human, who would have the gifts of beauty, grace, intelligence, and charm. 

When this child was born, it would be sent east to General Meade's wife. 

The cost to fuck a baby into Lizard was twenty-five hundred dollars, and his Lizard-cunt was worth every penny. He was a fertile Johonna, trained to take cock. He had been removed from his place, his land, the place his soul lay. So now he had no choice but to obey Mr. Babcock, and bear perfect children for any man wealthy enough to pay for the privilege.

Lonzo found himself typing as Lizard spoke, engrossed in the slow, even way the Johonna told his story. But when it died down, and the clack-clack died down, and Lonzo read over the story, he found it immeasurably sad. Sadder even than ignorant little Jutti. 

This wasn't a Friday story. 'Round these parts, where everyone claimed to be part-Johonna, even Lonzo's father claimed to be part-Johonna, the story would likely enrapture the public. Make a few men go hard at once. But Lonzo wasn't hard. He was just -- sad.

Lizard was exotic enough, but this interview wouldn't follow Walt Bisset's with any grace. It would just -- just plop into place, heartbreaking and upsetting, at the end of the week. Oh, maybe not upsetting for the rancheros or oilmen or former Union soldiers. But the Doñas, they'd read this and cry into their embroidered handkerchiefs, and Lonzo was halfway there with them, because it was one thing to fuck a little bitch that had been a hellraiser or troublemaker or might not have ever gotten anything better out of life, but it was quite another to cage a spirit of the land.

"Do you _like_ getting fucked?" he tried desperately, wanting anything, any angle to improve the story.

Lizard smiled slow, letting the long tongue loll out again.

"Sometimes," he said, in his sandpaper voice. "Sometimes it hits a spot in me real good. And I don't think of my grove then. I don't miss the sun so much. You going to fuck me good, reporter-man?"

Only because the story damn well demanded it. Lonzo put away the typewriter and gramophone and shucked off his robe. He was still naked beneath it, after his bath, and he had to stroke himself to hardness. Lizard shifted in place, eyeing his cock. 

"Get on all fours," Lonzo said.

It would be easier to not have to look at the wild, unusual face, the eyes the exact color of Lonzo's home, Lonzo's orchards. Lonzo kept thinking about his little spot in the valley for some reason, kept thinking about being ripped from it. He shuddered, trying to drive the thought from his mind.

On all fours, Lizard's huge belly and tits looked obscene. They hung below him, full and firm between his skinny limbs. His cunt was a bit slick, wet at the slit. Lonzo played one finger into it, then two. Lizard was the tightest whore yet save Billy, a bit too tight. But he loosened right up, fucking his hips back. 

Lonzo got his mound nice and messy. The stimulation seemed to make Lizard's cock perk up, too, so that was good. The Johonna was getting something out of it. Lonzo wondered what his cum was like, and asked.

"Sweet," Lizard rasped out. "Like the fruits of my grove."

Lonzo figured he would have to test that. The bars of the cage were spread out enough that he could get a hand in and pump the cock as he fingered the cunt. Lizard _keened_ , his eerie tongue sneaking out again and flapping up almost like a frog's. His skinny body moved in tandem with Lonzo's touch as he panted. His cunt only seemed to be getting wetter and wetter.

Lonzo didn't know why he found himself encouraging him -- he hadn't even done that to Walt, who had deserved encouragement -- but now he couldn't help that.

"Good," he said soothingly. "Good. You're juicing yourself up just right, Lizard. You ever get drenched thinking of cock?"

"Sometimes," the Johonna admitted, sounding somehow teary despite the hoarse nature of his voice. "I--I know only cock now. I belong to cock. I wish I had my place, but my only place now is on a cock, Mr. Babcock says. He says you will fuck me nice and hard, reporter-man. I--I like that."

His cunt was clinging to Lonzo's fingers. Four fingers now. That should be just enough to make him ready to take a prick. Lonzo pulled his hands out of the cage, making Lizard whimper at the sudden lack of attention. He lined his prick up with Lizard's cunt.

It slid in just right. Not too loose, not too tight. Only enough resistance to make Lonzo give a satisfied groan, before the wet flesh parted, the hot tunnel clenching and giving way to him. He fucked in with long, slow strokes, not quite able to go balls-deep because of the bars. But that didn't matter. Lizard was shuddering and moaning, plainly enjoying the fuck despite probably not really wanting it. Lonzo hit a certain place in him, and the Johonna whore gave a broken little wail.

That was the spot then. Lonzo fucked in, out. Hitting it at every stroke. The land-spirit's cunt was perfect. Lonzo could hardly hold out long enough to make Lizard cum first, because he could feel the telltale tightness in his balls that said he was close.

Thankfully, when he came, so did the last boy-bitch. Lizard's cunt gushed, and his cock twitched, letting out spurts of strange golden cum. When Lonzo pulled out, his own cum bubbled out of Lizard. 

Lonzo put a hand through the bars to gather up the cunt-wet and the golden liquid. When he put it to his lips, it _did_ taste like fruit, like the freshest and best of fruit. And familiar, somehow. Lonzo wasn't sure why it was familiar.

"I--I like your cum," Lizard rasped out dazedly. "Reporter-man, your cum is good. Inside me, it feels like my place again."

The next week, the _Amargosa Chronicle_ Friday edition sold out. People were by then eagerly awaiting the news of the final boy-bitch.

ANCIENT SPIRIT FINDS HIS PLACE SERVING COCKS did not disappoint.

-

To say that Lonzo's temporary column, The Weekday Boy-Whores of Newbold Babcock, was a success? This would be selling the column short. The public clamored for more, the church released a condemnatory statement which made Lonzo the talk of the town and which guaranteed him drinks at any watering hole he chose to enter. Women found him decidedly interesting all of a sudden, and men tended to catch his eye and grin. The head editor, red-faced, admitted that Lonzo Vega, slick and daring, was an asset to the paper.

Newbold, too, was pleased. He saw his profits quadruple in a week, his whores booked out for the foreseeable future.

"You ever want to fuck 'em, though, Lonz, I'll cancel their customers and you can go right on ahead," he said, over gin and cards the week following the column's debut. "I've got ten little holes set aside for you on reserve, not counting their pretty mouths."

Lonzo liked Newbold, liked the big, blond Union man. They were friends. But something had been bothering him, ever since that last Friday.

"How'd you get yourself a Johonna?" he asked. "You never did explain, and that Lizard doesn't seem in any state to go into details."

Newbold let out a big, hearty laugh, slapping his stomach.

"How'd'you think?" he said. "I'm an Eastern boy, and I came out here knowin' the native uprising would be my one chance to get me a land-spirit, since we would have to pull 'em from the last of the unclaimed territory. That's the whole reason I joined up. While you local boys were sleepin' in your bedrolls, I crept out to the native lands around the foothills. Waiting. Soon enough, I found one right there in the prettiest little valley. Not too far from here."

Even with this, Lonzo didn't put it together. It had been a long, wild, celebratory week, and he would still get up the next day, Saturday, and plan a pitch about the bronco competitions out in the Marron Valley. 

No, it took until he was lazing about on Sunday, on his veranda, looking out over his green, sun-kissed orchards. Right there in his perfect place. Tasting the juice of his grapes.

Lonzo started, and spat the sweet sun-golden taste out onto the dirt of the front garden. It was the taste of the land-spirit.

He blinked, and stared around at the land he would never be able to feel right about again.

"Aw, _fuck_ ," Lonzo said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I condone any of this? No. Did I need to get it out of my system? Yes. Because I’ve been reading a lot of O. Henry stories and then I was like, ok, hear me out, what if O. Henry stories were completely deranged boypussy filth. And now I guess I’ll be justly haunted by the angry ghost of O. Henry.


	2. Milky Boy Ice Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning that this chapter features oblique mentions of incontinence due to repeated abuse, but in my defense it also features a journey to self-acceptance! Of a sort.

Hester Chang had three sons: Winslow, Desmond, and Juan. 

Her late husband, Don Hugo Cruz, had been a gentle, peaceable man, who’d kept herds out in Los Saguaros. Hester’s people had been in the West as long as his had, but hers had been railway workers. Hester had been dirt poor and working as a dancing girl when Don Hugo fell in love with her. They’d set up in his little ranch and for a while things had been just fine, with the babies and the herds, until one day a heart attack claimed Don Hugo. The Doñas of the surrounding ranches had descended on Hester’s little ranch house to help her bury Don Hugo properly, for he’d been a churchgoing man despite the dancing girls. Then, nine months after Don Hugo had been left to rest in the red dirt, Hester shocked them all by opening up her first dancing-girl night club in the center of San Amargosa. 

Don Hugo had been gentle, peaceable, and incredibly bad with money. The ranch was going under. Hester, a practical woman, turned to a trade she knew well. She was good to her girls, all poor trade from the mining camps and the railway-side shanties, but she demanded punctuality and hard work from them. Soon enough she was turning a profit, which she used to move Winslow, Desmond, and Juan into a big house closer to town. 

A lesser woman might have put off the Doñas by this. But Hester had considerable charm, and had always been a good neighbor besides. The Doñas kept coming to her parlor to drink sweet milky iced coffee and to gossip, and of course to watch over the boys. The handsomest boys in San Amargosa, the Cruz-Chang boys, with the broad shoulders and brown skin of their father, but the pretty black eyes of their mother. 

Winslow and Desmond also inherited her practicality and business acumen. Winslow went into the shoe trade for horses, for so long as rancheros had horses those horses would need shoes, and rancheros would always have horses. And Desmond went into the shoe trade for men, for so long as rancheros had feet those feet would need shoes, and most rancheros, he figured, did in fact have feet, excepting old Don Eladio Vega, who’d had a terrible accident forty or fifty years ago. 

Juan was not like his brothers, and did not inherit good sense. Instead, he inherited his father’s passion for dancing girls. By the time he was eighteen Hester had caught him with them four or five times. He’d been jailed twice, too, for riding out with a gang of local boys to lasso herds that weren’t his for fun, for Juan was a real ranchero at heart, and missed living out by Los Saguaros something fierce. Sometimes he was out all night drinking and troublemaking, and he’d slink home in the morning with a tub of ice cream for his mother to try and make it up to her. 

Ice cream just for her, not for his dull older brothers. Only for Juan and mom. 

Hester was known to have a sweet tooth, and so did Juan, but she was a strict woman and the ice cream only just bought her off. Juan was driving her to distraction. Hester couldn’t talk of anything else when it came to her gossip sessions with the Doñas, and one day she got up and threatened to throw him out. But right then old Doña Claudina Vega, who was Juan’s _madrina_ , was just coming up the front step. 

Doña Claudina talked Hester down. 

“That boy needs a career, like his brothers!” Hester groused. 

“Juan isn’t the type to have careers,” said Doña Claudina. “Juan is the type to have commitments. Passions.”

"He used to be so good!" Hester said, without really noting her friend's response. "Looking after the animals with his father, helping milk the cows--"

"That's right," Doña Claudina said, thoughtfully. "But that's what I'm saying, mi alma. Since you had to sell the ranch, and Juan lost all sense of what it is to care for things, I'm afraid his talents haven't had anywhere to direct themselves."

Well, that happened to be not so long after the San Amargosa _Chronicle_ decided to enflame passions all over town, with a column on the five finest Boy-Whores offered by Mr. Newbold Babcock. Hester got to thinking, and then she called up Don Guillermo Quintana, the local carpenter, and then she went to the bank. 

Then she went to the big villa where Newbold Babcock had his brothel, and she put down six hundred dollars without batting an eye, in exchange for a slightly-used boywhore suitable for her purposes. 

Babcock wanted a thousand. But Hester bargained him down. Jutti Oleynik, the milk-titted boywhore, had been passed around the mining camps for two years by then, and had been taking men nonstop for three weeks in his newly-modified pussy since his debut in the _Chronicle_. Despite the recent addition of the cunt, his value, Hester argued successfully, could be said to have depreciated. 

(Privately, Babcock agreed. Jutti cried more than ever these days, and it was upsetting the customers.)

A week later, after Don Guillermo had had time to build a little cow pen in the back garden, Jutti was delivered to the Cruz-Chang house. 

Winslow was sleeping upstairs, and Desmond was sleeping upstairs, but Juan was still out causing trouble. But this time his mother didn’t worry. She just calmly went and woke up Winslow, to confuse him thoroughly with thanks that he swore he didn’t deserve. 

Juan slunk in around eleven that morning, with a tub of ice cream. But he found his mother making ice cream already. 

“This is going to be much better than your ice cream,” Hester said gaily, sleeves rolled up, as she pumped the ice cream maker in the kitchen. “Your brothers are _so_ wonderful, Juan! Of course, Winslow says Desmond must have bought the cow, and Desmond says Winslow must have bought the cow, but I know they did it together! How else could they have afforded it?”

“We have a cow?” Juan cried, shocked. “What? How? Where is it going to graze?”

Hester tinkled out a laugh. 

“Not that kind of cow, silly! The kind I think your brothers bought just as much for themselves as for me. Like you with your ice cream.”

And she gestured with an elbow at the window. 

Juan went to it, and gazed out at the back garden. 

The newly-bought boywhore was in his pen, a fenced-in enclosure that had a little three-wall stall at the back, with some bedding and a roof to shelter him from the rain. A collar around his neck was attached securely to a chain tying him to the fence. He was bent over, hands on that fence, as Juan’s brothers stood behind him, both of them still in their nightshirts. 

Thrusting together into his loose, gaping asshole. Winslow and Desmond hooted like boys as they fucked the boy-bitch with abandon, making Jutti’s heavy tits shake with each thrust. Jutti was gasping and red-faced, crying out as he was used. Juan felt his own prick firming up. He shifted right there, shamefaced, hardly able to believe his old woman would permit this in her house, but not upset by it. Not at all. 

“Say,” he said, voice cracking a bit. “Can _I_ try the cow next?”

Hester’s voice went suddenly cold. 

“You? Don’t be ridiculous. You didn’t buy him. That was your brothers who scrimped together to get us the cow. So he’s for them to enjoy. Now you sit right down and eat your ice cream, and that’s what’s for you, Juan.”

-

Well, if there’s something a red-blooded boy likes less than having two plodding older brothers who only talk shoes and accounts, it’s having to watch those brothers enjoy a treat he cannot have. 

No sooner was Juan denied the cow-slave than he fixed his heart on the little bitch, resolving to find a way to make everyone agree that backyard whore ought to be shared with him. 

Even though, between Winslow and Desmond, and the daily milkings Hester figured she could get out of him, Jutti was experiencing plenty of use already.

Now, some might say Jutti ought to have been used to use. He'd been one of Babcock's best sellers. There were days the boy didn't go twenty minutes without a cock in him. It had ruined his asshole completely, and he had to be plugged up back there, and hosed out with enemas, for he'd lost all ability to regulate his bowels. For a boy of seventeen or eighteen this is a hard, shameful thing, and it contributed to Jutti's teary-eyed misery. 

Now, Mr. Babcock had also fitted him up quick with a pussy, in response to the increased demand for Jutti after the _Chronicle_ did their column on him. The Vhraki down in Centerville had innovated pussy modifications, and once, years ago, those had been time-intensive procedures. But Mr. Babcock's house-Vhraki was a pro and had operated on Jutti on a Wednesday night only to have him fully ready for use by Thursday morning.

Jutti had cried. He'd been a mass of soreness below the hips, from the operation, and taking cocks in a new place hadn't made that any better. But it had to be said that now he had a hole that was not so distended and embarrassing. His pussy was tight, pink, and pretty, a snatch even the saddest little slut ought to have been proud of.

The first time Winslow pounded him in it, the boy-whore forced to his knees in the dirt of the back garden, Jutti could hardly think for the pain. The trouble with a tight hole was that it hurt worse than a loose one. And Winslow and Desmond had such thick cocks, thick as their muscular ranchero son forearms, but these were the cocks Jutti belonged to now. Hester had made that very clear to him. He could expect to be fed and permitted inside every three days to bathe. He could expect to have some privacy when he cleaned himself out in the corner of the yard with the hose. He was given seven new shifts, for Hester Chang was a fair owner and employer, and looked after her people, and he was given a Sunday-dress and a pair of shoes for when he was to go to church with the family.

But he was here to be fucked, and to give milk. He was here to take cock, as he had back at Babcock's.

Some people are born whores, but Jutti was not one of them. He cried himself to sleep every night in his little pen, sore down in his holes and sore with milk in his tits. The Vhraki over in Centerville had modified him so he was always making milk, leaking milk. All his body's energy went to churning out creamy, thick, sweet boy-tit milk, so that even with the three square meals Hester gave him he was usually famished. Hester, again, was fair, and let him gnaw on his own tits when he needed to, which he usually did with some degree of miserable delirium, out there alone in his pen in the cool nights. But that wasn't enough to relieve the soreness and pressure in his chest. That was only relieved when he got his morning milking, when Hester made him go on hands and knees so she could pump each tit with rigor, squeeze the sore nipples and get all that good milk into a pail for the family's daily use.

Jutti's pussy was usually dry when it got fucked, because he didn't want to be fucked, not really. But he'd slick right up back there at the relief he felt just being milked. Just after the milking was the best time to fuck him, all the Cruz-Chang boys reckoned (an observation made while watching the milking over the pen fence, an observation which made Jutti flush red with humiliation). Winslow and Desmond traded off on that pleasure, so that by the second week in his new home, Jutti was getting plowed good and deep every day, learning to come on a cock.

It made Juan go fairly green. He wanted a piece of that brand new, close-to-mint-condition pussy, and yet Hester refused to permit it. It has to be said that some men would have taken it anyway, but Juan for all his faults respected his mother's word in her own house, and so he resolved to win the pussy somehow. 

First, he reckoned he would take the duty of milking off of his mother's hands. Hester wasn't a young woman, and she wasn't a big woman, while Juan had the same powerful arms as his brothers and could really tug a tit with gusto. He offered to take on milking as his chore, and so one morning Jutti found himself dragged awake by the youngest son, chained into place over a pair of pails. Juan's capable, firm hand massaged his right tit, and the other hand stroked with purpose on the nipple, tweaking and coaxing out the milk. Jets of milk shot out, making Jutti gasp and go light-headed. In minutes the soreness in that tit abated, and he was shifting, his cunt going sloppy-wet.

Juan, for his part, got a close-up view of the pretty cow. Jutti was easy on the eyes, and that wasn't because of modifications. He was just a nice-looking kid, with big blue eyes and pink-rose skin and golden hair. His mouth was a pink rose, too, and Juan couldn't help but think of what it would feel like wrapped around his cock. But his mother was watching from the window, so Juan had to let go of the thought pretty fast -- Hester had been clear that the cow wasn't for his use like that.

A cow takes more work than just milking. Jutti needed to be exercised, led out of the pen by his collar and chain once a week and run around the garden until he was so tired he couldn't run any more. He needed lots of high-protein food brought out to him -- Mr. Babcock had recommended a mash of cum and beans and greens, which tasted something awful but did produce robust milk. His anal cleanings he'd been trained to do himself, but someone had to supervise him when he was let out of the pen to do his other chores: bathing, washing out the phalluses he used to plug himself in the garden trough, helping Hester and her hired girl prepare dinner for the Doñas, laundering his shifts and Winslow and Desmond's shirts, and shining the family's Sunday shoes. 

Juan volunteered himself for all these tasks. He was a constant shadow at the little cow's side, tending to him and overseeing him, and once or twice switching him when Jutti was bad. But never too hard. Juan had a knack with cows, even the boy-bitch kind, and believed in switching to correct, but not to punish. He reckoned Jutti was pretty well-punished most of the time anyway, between the ruined anal gape, the painfully heavy tits, the too-tight little twat, and Jutti's cock, too. That cock was always hard, modified that way, and Jutti's balls as tight and swollen as his tits were. Winslow and Desmond, they usually got annoyed with how sorry and teary-eyed the little bitch was all the time, but Juan -- he never did. He'd massage Jutti's tits, give him extra milkings to calm him down. Always hose him off so he wasn't sticky, and play with the golden hair, and even get to talking to the skinny little cow-slut. That was how Juan learned Jutti _could_ come with his cock, he was just under a Vhraki spell that meant he needed to be electrocuted a bit to manage it.

Juan, he went out and bought a modern battery, not too high a voltage, and during Jutti's evening milking he'd hook that up to the kid's cock so Jutti's swollen balls could get relief too. The pain was something awful for the boy-bitch, but Jutti clearly needed it, and Juan was a ranchero at heart and was not one to deny a cow what they needed.

Soon enough, Jutti was easy and good and calm with Hester's youngest. A cow gets calm and sweet when it's well-cared for, and Jutti -- this was the best he'd been cared for in two years. He wasn't passed around mining camps anymore, and he only had to take two men at a time, at most. He was milked regular, and Mr. Juan would stroke his tits so nice. Jutti would wake up naturally, of his own accord, and wait patiently for the broad-shouldered, handsome rancher’s son to come out to him. 

“You gonna give me a moo, pretty?” Juan would say affectionately, as he climbed the fence.

Jutti would blush. 

“M-moo,” he would manage, just to hear this black-eyed son of the West chuckle delightedly at him. 

Juan’s grin would shine sharp in the weak light of sunrise. 

“Got your morning feed ready for you. I know you’re hungry, honey. Got to be, with the milk you’re so busy makin’ us. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I made sure you’ll have plenty of breakfast today.”

And then he would lean down, tousle the golden hair, and whisper mischievously: “I don’t use Winslow and Desmond’s cum. Oh sure, they save it up. But I always throw it out. You’d rather taste mine, wouldn’t you, honey?”

Jutti would be beet red by now. He’d been trained at Babcock’s to never gainsay a man, so at first he just nodded automatically at this. But after a week or two it would come to be true. 

“Gee, you’re a good producer,” Juan would tell him kindly, leading Jutti over to the milking area by his chain. “I get so proud when people ask about you at church. Why, honey, if I could bottle your milk up and sell it I think it’d knock people’s socks off. Yesterday Mom made a chocolate swirl pie with it that you should have tasted! Maybe I’ll sneak you out the last piece if you’re good, honey. Here, let me help you—“

And he’d bend down and help Jutti undo the tangled laces of his shift, to free his big swollen tits. When these were hanging over the pails, Jutti on his hands and knees, Juan would pull up the back of the shift to rub at Jutti’s round, pink ass. 

“You clean yourself out yet today?” the handsome ranchero would ask, without judgment. 

“No, Mister Juan,” Jutti would whisper shyly. “Just woke up a few minutes before you come out, Mister Juan.”

Juan’s big hand on his ass, rubbing his skin like he really was a good pet, felt nice to Jutti. Hardly no one ever touched him except to fuck him or milk him, but Mister Juan gave him nice pats like he was a blue ribbon bitch. Jutti had never gotten quite used to being impaled on a cock, but he got used to nice touches quick, for he was hungry for ‘em. 

“Aw, that’s alright,” Juan would say, hand migrating back to the enormous rubber prick stopping up Jutti’s backside. He‘d tap it twice, making Jutti give out a little guttural sound. “Not your fault, sweetheart. You did your job so well at Babcock’s you got kinda wrecked back here, I guess, but it’s just proof you’re a good hard worker, honey. Don’t you let it make you ashamed. I’ll help clean you out later. Nobody’s gonna see you get all messy but me, and I don’t judge you none.”

Then Juan would apply himself to relieving those sore tits, those heavy sacks that tortured Jutti day-in, day-out. Beneath Juan’s capable hands Jutti would feel his first daily moments of relief. His eyes would roll back in their sockets as his cunt wet itself. Even though his balls were sore and his prick painfully hard, ass stopped up with the heavy cock, Jutti would start to feel so good. He would be whimpering happily in seconds. 

And all the while the ranchero would chatter absentmindedly, about the old plot down in Los Saguaros, about his pop’s old herds and about the satisfaction one got milkin’ a cow just right. Jutti, who’d been born in a dirty tenement back East and known only hunger and pain before Mr. Babcock had picked him up to subject him to even more hunger and pain, would start to see the picture of that golden childhood. Would settle into it like it was his, like he was part of the rancher’s dream-life. 

As the cow. He was Mister Juan’s cow. 

His little cunt would be dripping slick down his skinny thighs by the time Juan milked dry the first tit. Usually once Juan had gotten started on the second, Jutti would be shifting in place. Two or three tugs would have him coming, crying out, feeling so good. 

“Aw, that’s it, honey,” Juan would say affectionately. “Ain’t it nice to be an animal, sweetheart? You can just get milked and feel good. Wish I could keep you like this all day. What’re you gonna say to thank me, huh?”

“M-moo!” Jutti would sob out happily. “Moooo!”

“That’s right," Juan would tell him encouragingly. One thing he was learning was that human cows, unlike regular cows, gave better milk when they were happy. When Jutti was treated good, the little boy-whore would give twice the milk, and it would be thicker and creamier. It would last longer, too, not going spoiled so fast as cow's milk. Juan had tested the milk on the days Jutti was switched, or fucked too hard, and that was like plain old animal milk. But the milk Jutti gave when he was happy and content like this was milk so sweet and perfect that it put all the herds of Los Saguaros to shame.

Of course, soon enough Winslow or Desmond would awake to ruin it. They'd come right out, pull up their nightshirts and, bare-assed in the sun, and poke their huge, ugly cocks right into the cow. Jutti's sloppy cunt would take 'em, no problem, but the little cow would cringe a bit with embarrassment, the fantasy of being just Mr. Juan's totally ruined now that he was being fucked so hard like the bitch he really was. Juan could tell it was ruined, too, and would get offended on Jutti's behalf.

"Hey, watch it!" he'd say. "Let me get him fed first, at least!"

"Aw, it's what the bitch is for," Winslow-or-Desmond would say.

Well, Juan wasn't stupid, and soon enough he twigged to the fact that neither of his brothers had much investment in the little cow-slut they'd supposedly spent heaps of money on. Winslow and Desmond weren't bad fellas, but they weren't imaginative, and they weren't natural rancheros. They didn't ever feel like taking care of Jutti -- making his mash, hosing out his little ass, helping him sponge up his tits in the tub while telling him how cute he was, just to see him blush all pink like a sunset. That was Juan who did all that. While Winslow and Desmond, they just wanted to fuck him and get milk out of him, and after that was done, he could have been sent to a glue factory and they might not have noticed.

No, now things made sense to Juan. _Mom_ had bought the cow, and she hadn't bought Jutti for Winslow or Desmond, neither. Juan was his mother's favorite boy, and he knew how Hester thought, and if Hester was gonna make an investment like Jutti it was because she wanted something bigger out of it than just a hole to warm her eldest sons' pricks.

Didn't take too much thinking to unravel the whole scheme, then. People did say that sometimes a boy needed a dog to learn responsibility. Well, Juan had needed a cow. It galled him to admit it, but ever since he'd been brought Jutti he hadn't gone out roughhousing or carousing, hadn't gotten drunk or pawed a dancing girl or spent the night in jail. 

He ought to have been annoyed at his clever mother for tricking him into good behavior. But he couldn't find it in him to be annoyed. He sincerely loved his new cow-bitch, his little producer. Oh, sure, his cock was always straining, and he tugged himself off in his bed every night in frustrated agony over not getting to fuck Jutti. But Jutti, he was such a sweet bitch that Juan was half in love with him even without the fucking. Just getting to keep his cow fed and clean and coming with a firm hand on his tits? That was 'round the clock ranchero work, and Juan was happier these days than he'd been in an age. 

Figuring all this out made Hester's prohibition on fucking Jutti easier to take. Juan's mother wasn't an unfair woman, and he was pretty sure he could expect her to relent soon enough, once she saw her scheme had worked. So he bit back any offended pride, and just kept working at keeping his cow-bitch happy. He would sneak Jutti tidbits of pie from the family's meals. He would spend an hour or more out in the pen, on a stool, with the bitch between his knees so he could brush Jutti's golden hair and tie it back with a blue ribbon while the kid sobbed his gratitude. He bought Jutti a cute little cowhide suit for Sundays, and a pair of proper cowhide boots. Jutti was a hard little worker and deserved it, taking charge of the family's laundry like a pro, and helping in the kitchen when called to. And, since he trusted Juan, he was good about shyly turning those big blue eyes on him when he needed cleaning out, losing some of his shame and humiliation over his biggest flaw.

"Please hose me out, Mr. Juan," he would say, not half so red in the face as he used to be. And he'd follow Juan out meekly to the back of his shed, where he'd go down in the dirt and let Juan get to the messy work of flushing him full of so much water his belly would swell and cramp up.

"Don't cry, honey," Juan would tell him kindly, rubbing his flanks. "It's alright. It's not your fault, sweetheart."

"I'm sorry, Mister Juan!" Jutti would sob out anyway, like he hadn't heard.

"Sorry for what? You must've been fucked by a thousand miners, sweetheart. Ain't no man in the hills who hasn't had your ass. Of course you're gonna be a little busted up and used, honey. It stands to reason. I'm awful proud of you that you're gettin' over the shame of it, though. A boy might have some shame, sweetheart, but you're not a boy no more. You're my little cow, that's what you are. A cow shits itself and nobody minds, honey. You think I mind? Naw, honey. I love you just like you are."

By now, Juan wasn't the only one playing with himself at night. Jutti had taken to sticking fingers in his sore little cunt while he suckled his tits, bringing himself off with thoughts of his good, kind rancher's son before bed every night. If Juan had paused in tugging his cock and just gone to his window, he could have looked out over the back garden and seen that his little cow was thinking of him, mooing lowly as he came, as Juan had trained him to do. Jutti was starting to think that maybe a cock in his cunt or in his mouth or between his tits might be alright, if that cock was Mister Juan's. 

Back East this kind of romance might have been odd, but this was San Amargosa, where there's many an odder pairing fucking in the foothills beneath the pounding red noonday sun. Even Hester Chang noticed the feelings, and didn't mind them. Jutti couldn't get pregnant like her dancing girls could, and Juan? He was happier and better behaved now than he'd been in years. Winslow and Desmond, who got a free fuck every day, weren't complaining about the state of affairs much either. So for a while things looked to come out just right for everybody.

Well, when life is good, it's pretty much guaranteed that soon the winds will turn. Juan had a pair of friends -- Vernon Kerry and Santiago Johnson -- who were wild as anything, real San Amargosa hellraisers. Hester and Doña Claudina didn't like them, but they were good friends, in their way. They hadn't begrudged Juan his reformed character, not so long as he made sure to stop by their favorite bar, the Stuffed Jackalope, every once in a while for a drink. 

The problem with drink is that even a practiced drinker, a career alcoholic, can go too far with it. And one day, that's just what happened to Juan. One moment he was listening to Vern mournfully tell of how pretty Celia Montenegro had told him to shove his marriage proposal where the sun didn't shine, and the next thing he knew all three of them -- him, Vern, and Santiago Johnson -- were standing in the Montenegro front yard out below the blood moon, shooting their guns in the air and shouting about Vern's plans to go straight and be the best husband a man could be.

Celia's brother, Tonio, came out with a shotgun, and Celia's cousin, Conchita, ran for the sheriff. And by the time Juan was sobering up, he found himself on the floor of a jail cell with his groaning friends, and through the bars of the windows he could see the sun coming up.

He felt a pang of worry. It was time to milk Jutti, his little cow-bitch. His baby's big tits would be all swollen, his guts all full, his belly clean-empty. Juan's cow was waiting in the pen to be soothed, milked, hosed out, and fed, and Juan was going to miss their daily appointment.

He felt low. Really low. He felt low too because Celia Montenegro probably hadn't deserved three drunks in her yard, but really he was a low-down dog because he'd promised to care for his little cow, and now Jutti would be waking up lonely and needy and abandoned. Juan buried his head in his hands, ashamed.

Jutti _did_ wake up lonely and needy. He waited for Juan, and then waited some more. He waited some more after that, mooing low with both hope and discomfort, hope because maybe if he mooed Juan would hurry up and come out to him. His tits were hurting him and his backside all cramped-up, the rubber cock too heavy in it. His own cock strained like it always did, so he couldn't help but brush away a tear. But he was so looking forward to his ranchero coming to milk him that he didn't cry more than that. He just waited patiently.

Winslow lurched out of the house soon enough, and then Desmond. Each one kicked at Jutti to get the boy bitch to turn over, so they could fuck him fast and hard. He took two loads that morning, in his smarting, dry cunt, and still his Mister Juan didn't come. Then he really did start to cry, a bit. The sun was out properly, and he had to struggle up and clean himself out, shamefully, wondering why his ranchero had abandoned him.

Juan never tied him up too hard, so the long chain linking Jutti to the fence was pretty slack. Jutti found he could unclip it at his collar. He wasn't supposed to do that, and maybe he would get a switching for it, but as he forced the big rubber prick back into his own ass he thought that this was fine. He'd find Mister Juan in the big house and ask for his switching, for being bad, and Mister Juan would at least have to give him that.

But when he crept into the house, and searched room to room, there was no sign of Mister Juan. Only Mrs. Hester having coffee in the kitchen with her friends. Jutti crept to the front entrance and pulled on his cowhide boots, and then slipped out to see if Mister Juan's big pinto horse was tied up in the stable. But the horse wasn't there.

San Amargosa is a pretty big town, by Western standards, but to an Eastern boy it looks small. It looks small especially if you know you've only got to find a large, striking white-and-black horse, being ridden by a large, striking black-eyed ranchero.

Jutti started out into town. He usually crawled on all fours these days, of his own volition. It pleased Mister Juan, and made him feel more like a cow, which he was starting to be proud of. And it meant he didn't feel the big rubber prick in him so much, and when his tits were hanging beneath him, dripping milk, at least the milk didn't get his tummy and chest all sticky. But it would have been odd to crawl down the street, so now he walked. He was grateful Mister Juan always exercised him so hard once a week, for his skinny leg muscles were stronger now, and despite his hunger pangs and his sore cock, tits, and ass he could make a few miles on foot if he had to.

He was still gasping from exertion when he made it to the sheriff's station, and spotted the big pinto horse of his master ranchero. Jutti's shift was all wet down his front, soaked through with milk, and wet too in an embarrassing spot where his ever-painful cock thrust out. His blond hair was all sweaty, and his skin was flushed bright red from the walk and from sunburn. He knew he must look like a dirty whore, but he wanted to find Mister Juan, so he hauled himself up to the station and walked right up to the desk.

Sheriff Lyman Watkins was on duty, a big-bellied man with a jolly face, who wasn't too hard on drunks so long as their mothers paid enough bail to make things worth his while. He was just about to ask one of his deputies to run down to the Cruz-Chang house to get Mrs. Hester, and was surprised to see this messy boy-slut walk in. Jutti kept his eyes downcast when he walked up to the sheriff's desk, but his voice was firm.

"Please, Mister. I'm lookin' for my ranchero, Juan Cruz-Chang. I sure would like to see him free, Mister."

The sheriff's station was really one big room with the desk in the middle, a wash-room and toilet at the back, and the cells all around. This meant that Juan, still berating himself in his mind, heard Jutti's quiet assertion. His head snapped up. There was his little cow, come to tend to _him_.

"Er," said the Sheriff. "Well. He's made a real ruckus, Cruz-Chang has. I reckon you're that cow-bitch they keep, the one they bring to church on Sundays? I'm afraid that if you haven't got fifty dollars for bail, he's got to stay right where he is."

Jutti wanted to cry. Juan, looking at his miserable little face, wanted to cry too. But after a second, and a little sniff of misery, the cow seemed to come to a decision.

"I'm worth fifty dollars," Jutti said. "Or my back hole is, Mister. It's kinda loose, but Mr. Babcock used to sell it for ten dollars a man, and there's you and your four deputies I counted smoking and shooting the breeze just outside here. Well, I reckon I can take two or three of you at a time back there. And my mouth's pretty good. Plus my milk's a dollar a squeeze, or it was. And my cunt--"

"No!" Juan cried out. "Ain't none of you touching his damn cunt! That's _my_ property, that is, since he's my little cow!"

Jutti blushed, but for once it wasn't with misery but with a sort of pleasure. He'd been dreaming, nights, of Mister Juan claiming his cunt. Mister Juan making him all his. So now, as the Sheriff blinked at him, he found the strength to loose the laces on his shift and tug the milk-dirty garment over his head. He was left standing there naked in his cowhide boots, his tits and ever-hard boy-cock on display. By now, though Vern was still out cold, Santiago Johnson had woken up and was giving a low whistle of appreciation at the firm, rounded mounds on Jutti's skinny chest. Big obscene tits, which had merited a five-paragraph writeup in the San Amargosa _Chronicle_.

Lyman Watkins might have been a sheriff, but he was only a man. He quickly spotted that one could extort fifty dollars from a drunk's mother any day, while fucking a real Babcock boy-whore for free was a treat a man might not see even once in his life. He nodded once, then stood up and whistled for his deputies.

Well, they spread Jutti out on the sheriff's desk and they all took him. This was pretty damn near close to the boy-bitch's nightmare, to be passed around between men, getting his loose back hole jeered at and stuffed, his tits pawed. His cock painfully squeezed. He nearly broke down, because it reminded him of the mining camps. 

But only nearly. He managed to lock eyes with his ranchero, who was all white-faced and miserable to watch him being fucked like this, and that --

That took Jutti through it. That made him bear it, like a proper bitch. No, he would have made Mr. Babcock proud with how he took those five cocks. Not even a single tear slipped down his face as he was rutted by two deputies, sucking Sheriff Watkins' fat prick at the same time. When he tit-fucked another deputy he did it like a pro, massaging the man's cock with his pillowy breasts and suckling the head at the same time, while Watkins and the fourth deputy plowed his ass. By then Vern Kerry had woken up, and he and Johnson were stroking themselves off at the sight, shouting out encouragement to the deputies.

"Yeah, mess that slut up!" Vern jeered, and Jutti got to hear Mister Juan, _his_ Mister Juan, snarl, "Shut your fucking mouth or I'll shut it for you, Vern!"

Jutti whimpered happily around the cock in his mouth. His ranchero was standing up for him. For him, the little cow-bitch. Jutti might have two loads of cum on his tits, one on his face and hair, and three in his worthless rear hole, but he felt --

He felt loved. And he loved his Mister Juan back so, so much.

By the time the sheriff and deputies were done with him, he was sore all over and very weak. He stumbled to his shift while Sheriff Watkins let Juan out of the cell, and his little arms shook so hard he could barely pull it back over his head.

Juan brushed past the Sheriff, ignoring the man's warnings and exhortations to behave himself in the future, and ran to Jutti. He picked the little cow bitch up, not caring that Jutti was all sticky with milk and cum, and cradled him to his chest. He was too smart to snap out the curses he wanted to throw on the sheriff and deputies, so he just gave the lawmen a derisive look and then strode out to his horse.

Jutti was bruised-up and sorry, small in his arms. Juan found himself crying. He couldn't risk jostling Jutti around on the horse, so he had to lead the pinto home slowly, still carrying Jutti bridal-style.

"I'm so sorry, honey," he told the little cow-slut. "I'm so, so sorry."

"It's alright," Jutti said weakly, meaning it. He was just happy to have found his ranchero.

But this wasn't the kind of thing Juan could make up with a pint of ice cream. At Tumbleweed Street, they ran into the red Amargosa River, and Juan took the horse and bitch down to the banks, so he could kneel there and get Jutti at least cleaned up in the warm water. 

"Here, get your boots off, baby. You're such a good little cow, sweetheart. Wouldn't you believe it, but you're herding me home, honey, and right when I needed it. I thank god every day you came to me, but today I'm thankin' him extra hard. There's no man in San Amargosa luckier than me, now I've got a good little cow like you."

Jutti, though every inch of him hurt and though his loose ass gaped so wide all San Amargosa could see up into him, for he'd left his rubber prick back at the station, smiled with real pride. 

His ranchero, his Juan, was happy to have him! _Him_! Even back East, no one had ever been proud of Jutti. And now the man he loved loved him back.

"Moooooo," he managed, with a gap-toothed, happy grin.

Juan washed him gently and carefully, and then helped him get his boots on and balanced him on the horse. He led Jutti home like that, stopping at the end of Tumbleweed Street to buy the bitch some ice cream. Back at the house, he settled Jutti in the parlor like Jutti was a person, and snuggled Jutti right up in his big arms as Jutti ate so much ice cream it gave him a stomach-ache.

Juan patted his stomach through it.

"Aw, sorry baby. I'll give you your mash tonight, and it'll fix you right up--"

"With _your_ cum?" Jutti breathed out, for he loved knowing he was getting some of his ranchero's cum in him.

"Of course, honey. Always," Juan said softly.

"I--I like that better than ice cream, Mister Juan," Jutti admitted.

It didn't taste so nice, but it fit him better. He was a cow, and he belonged to Juan Cruz-Chang, and he was proud of himself for that.

"Baby, that's just because you haven't tasted your ice cream. I'll make you some out of your own milk, and you'll see how fine it is," Juan promised.

And there, right then and there, an idea came to Juan. So, even though he was miserable and guilty, he was fully immersed in the little cow in his arms by the time Hester Chang came home from doing her weekly shopping. 

She found Juan and Jutti still in the parlor, Juan drinking straight from the tit and pausing as if to consider the texture and taste, as the little cow mooed happily. This behavior wasn't strictly allowed, but Hester had noticed her son had not come home the night before, and was interested in seeing just what had gone down to bring him back and bring him straight to his naked little boy-bitch.

"Aw, ma, I did somethin' real horrible," Juan admitted, as she stood there with her hands on her hips. "But my baby here, he knows how to keep me on the up and up, ma. I know I've been an awful son to you, and I ain't makin' anything of myself. I'm awful sorry, but I reckon I know how to make it up to you and Jutti, and Winslow and Desmond too, if you just give me a chance too. I'll be a changed man from here on out, ma, I promise."

Hester would have been forgiven for not believing him. But Juan's madrina, Doña Claudina, soon came by and urged Hester to give her son just one last chance. Juan wasn't trying to dodge what he'd done. He fessed up to it right away, once he'd milked his cow, and settled the bitch down to rest in his pen. And he had real ideas now, ideas for a business that just needed hard work and elbow grease to get underway.

Well, if you haven't guessed it by now, this here is the origin story for the greatest treat in the Union. I can bet you've tasted it yourself, even if you live back East in Union City, or in Centerville. You've got it in your mind's eye, I figure: the blue tin with the picture of the smiling, pretty blond in a white shift and cowhide boots, the big chest promising a sweet surprise inside. People want to know why it's called Jutti-Cow Ice Cream, and now you know. It costs more than the other brands, sure, but that's just because every pint gets made from rare boy-cow milk, right there in the lands around San Amargosa.

The operation started small, in Juan's mother's kitchen. But soon enough Juan was so successful selling Jutti's milk-tit ice cream that he was making more money than Winslow and Desmond combined. He moved Jutti and himself out to a big ranch house in Los Saguaros, not too far from where his father's old ranch was, and they're happy as anything out there. Juan has regular cows now too, and they help make the plain Cruz-Chang brand ice cream that's fifty cents cheaper than the Jutti-Cow variety. But Jutti-Cow is what really sells. It's made of the thickest, creamiest, sweetest milk in the West, because it comes from the happiest little boy-bitch.

Jutti no longer sleeps out in the pen, even though he's a cow. Now he gets chained up in his ranchero's bed every night. He gets his protein straight from Juan's cock, mooing happily as he sucks it down. Then, while Juan sucks his tits, his tight little cunt loosens up and he gets wet for his master. Juan fucks him like that, whenever Juan wants, and as Juan fucks him he praises Jutti for being the nicest little cow a man could ask for. It's taken some ten thousand cocks abusing him before Jutti found this cock, Juan's cock, to treat him so good, but Jutti isn't complaining. He moos his thanks instead. 

He no longer even has to worry about that horrible, painfully swollen boyslut prick he had. When he made back the six hundred dollars that had been spent on him, Juan gave him a present. He married Jutti properly, and then took the cow on honeymoon to Centerville. Jutti had lots of bad memories of being modified there, and might have cried in misery, but he told himself to trust his ranchero, and he was right. In Centerville, Juan paid a pretty penny for a full castration, and now the boy-bitch doesn't have to worry about the pain in his cock and balls anymore. 

He doesn't have to worry about painful tits either, because Juan keeps him well-milked, and he doesn't have to worry about going hungry, because Juan lets him eat as much as he likes.

"Can I have your milk on it?" Jutti usually asks, shyly, of the man he loves.

"Aw, honey. You can have my milk in your bowl, on your face, on your tits, wherever you want, baby," Juan says easily.

Jutti always blushes with gratitude. His ranchero treats him so nice. And Juan never complains if sometimes he doesn't plug himself up painfully, if instead he spends the day rolling around in the cow pen, letting himself get messy, sinking into the mind of an animal, only to crawl to his ranchero and moo sadly for a cleaning and a switching.

Wouldn't you believe it, but Jutti gets even wetter at that, these days, than at the milking. He likes being cleaned so gently, then bent over a fence and beaten on his cunt, his tits, for letting himself become more pig than cow. Until he lets out a low of understanding, a promise to be better. Then Juan gathers him up in his arms and presses kisses to him, and fucks him right there in the field.

"Aw, sweetheart, I'm sorry to hurt you. You might get dirty sometimes, but you can't help it. You were a real used-up whore once, so it's to be expected of you. But that's behind you, baby. Now you're more. You're my perfect little cow-bitch, aren't you? Aren't you, honey?"

"Moooo!" Jutti agrees, smiling wide, as Juan's cock plumbs his wet cunt and Juan's hands massage his tits.

He isn't ashamed or embarrassed anymore. He's a cow, and happy to be a cow. He's gotten nice and used to the wrecked body he has, because it's his, and because it's the same milk-heavy body that brings so much pleasure and profit to his beloved.

So if you go out to Los Saguaros, and you hear a happy moo, well. Maybe it's a normal cow. Or maybe, just maybe, it's that pretty little blond on your ice cream tin, mooing out his thanks and his love to his big, black-eyed ranchero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no explanation or justification for this! Sometimes you just want to write shameless cow-play. 
> 
> I might do a chapter for each of the boy-whores, don’t know yet.


End file.
